Portrait of a Cardboard Villain as a Young Man
by lazaefair
Summary: He's villified, mocked, spit upon, and generally agreed by all to be the most disagreeable character of them all. Presenting Satan's Spawn, as himself.
1. In the beginning

_In which I (attempt) to shed some light on a cardboard villain. Poor guy, he's just misunderstood, you know? (Beyond that, I have no idea where this is going.) Anyway, ya'll know the drill: review—good or bad._

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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The coffee sure packed a punch. But that was its job, after all—punching people awake at godforsaken hours of the morning.

His own youthful enthusiasm aside, he really didn't know why the hell Superintendant Wilson was so eager to hold a job interview at 8:00 in the morning. He supposed the man was probably inordinately busy, and this inconvenient time was the only slot the Superintendent could squeeze out for a lowly college grad looking for a job. Places to go, people to meet...and since poor Mrs. Fox had chosen an inconvenient year to retire (leaving behind many relieved students as well as a vacant teaching position), Richard Vernon was fairly sure the interview was only a formality. The new school year was drawing close, after all, and they needed an English teacher desperately.

Which, of course, is where he came in. He had impeccable credentials in college—granted, his senior year had been a bit more rushed than he'd liked, and he'd had to cut off his internship early to move down to Shermer—and was somewhat experienced in tutoring, having sheperded many freshmen through the ropes at St. Williams University. And anyway, he really didn't see how some high school kids could offer _that_ much trouble—college freshmen were only a year removed, and they hadn't been so bad.

The upshot of it all was, Richard had been looking for a job soon after graduation, and by happy chance stumbled on the Shermer district, with several vacancies needing to be filled. He had a degree in general education, they needed teachers. Naturally, the outcome was him sitting (rather sleepily) in a severe-looking office, awaiting the arrival of the venerable Superintendent Wilson. The man's secretary (who apparently never slept, and had also probably been around since the dinosaurs) had let him in, with a sharp gleam of disapproval in her eye.

Not that it bothered him much. He got the impression that the old granny probably never approved of anyone—well, maybe Superindentent Wilson. But he doubted it. Meanwhile, it was 8:04, and no sign of Wilson showing up yet. Damn. Richard sighed, knowing that it was a bad habit of his to grow inordinately impatient with people who weren't punctual to the dot, even if it was only a difference of four minutes. He'd probably have to fix that at some time. Teenagers were notorious for being late, good or bad excuses both, and it wouldn't do any wonders for building a rapport between himself and his students if he persisted in nitpicking things like punctuality.

Anyway, that came later. For now, all he had to do was look professional (not hard with the good-looking suit he had on—if he did say so himself) and behave like a competent, trustworthy fellow. And the job would be in the bag.

"You won't last, you know. The new ones never last..."

Richard jumped—what? Oh, it was only Wilson's secretary, Mrs. Nesbitt from the nametag on her desk. Well, damn. Barely in the door and someone had already pronounced his gloomy fate. He hated it when old, excuse me, _senior_ citizens passed snap judgments on younger people like him. Sure, they had the vast experience and all that, but the world ran on the backs of the youthful (probably all at least 100 years younger than Mrs. Nesbitt here) and damned if he was going to blindly accept what some old lady with a cane was telling him.

Then again, he _had_ heard legends about Mrs. Nesbitt—about her near-legendary ability to pinpoint a person's character in one glance, an ability probably honed by years and years of experience. The woman had been here before Wilson himself, for crying out loud.

Oh, hell. She didn't think he'd last? Well, he'd show her. It wasn't like he was some wet-behind-the-ears amateur, either. He had his B.A. and B.S. and two months spent teaching at an elementary school as part of his degree program. Not to mention a year of being a professor's teaching assistant and tutoring kids on the side to boot. No, if Mrs. Nesbitt thought she had his future pinned, she was in for a hell of a surprise. Richard determined not to back down. He _would _last, and teach those students so bloody well, the state standardized tests wouldn't know what had hit them.

"Vernon! So glad you could make it, how was the drive over?"

At last, it was the Superintendent himself, large and hearty and rather encouraging for a young man just starting out at the bottom of the totem pole. He was a refreshing change from the dour atmosphere that surrounded Mrs. Nesbitt, and anyway the man represented the opportunity for employment. Suck it up? Why yes, of course.

"Not bad, I didn't run into any traffic, surprisingly. And you?"

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_Well, what do you think? Think I'm portraying Young Vernon accurately? Should I load the irony on more heavily? Let me know, I welcome all criticism. _


	2. It wasn't pretty

_Chapter Two, mis amigos. Special thanks to Sparknotes for providing that lovely essay I was too lazy to write myself. Additional thanks to all who have reviewed so far. I'm well-aware my writing has plenty of room for improvement, and it helps when y'all provide criticisms._

_All standard disclaimers apply._

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Vernon stared down at the enormous piles of papers to grade and sighed profusely. It wasn't the first time he'd emitted a similar sound, especially when trying to decipher the crabbed scribblings of careless high school students. Weren't they supposed to learn good penmanship in...oh...elementary school? He was going to go cross-eyed one of these days, and the optometrist would never believe him if he told the good docter that he'd gone cross-eyed because of bad _handwriting_.

Sigh. Might was well get started. He picked up the first paper on the pile, unable to restrain the ominous opening of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony from marching through his head. Two months. Two thrice-bedamned, hellish months into the school year, and he was already considering a resignation. Or mass homicide. He stared hopelessly at the paper, wondering if all that hair spray had really absorbed into this particular cheerleader's head, causing her to write such an atrocious opening paragraph. Weren't they supposed to learn the _basics_ of spelling and grammar in...oh...elementary school? Worse, it was in that loopy, curlicued handwriting he hated so much. She'd started decorating everything with little hearts and stars.

Gah. Richard was sorely tempted to toss the whole stack in the trash, before he remembered that teachers weren't supposed to do that. It was part of the job description: Do Not Throw Away Stacks of Essays On A Whim.

Mrs. Nesbitt was nearly right, damn her. Apparently there was no grace period for new teachers, not even for teachers just a few years older than the students themselves. Honestly, he'd thought that maybe being so young would be an advantage, seeing as he could relate better to the students than some of the old dinosaurs still inexplicably hanging on in the English department. But no. No, just because he was on the other side of the scratched, banged up old desk meant he was more than fair game for the little shitheads.

_Insolent_ didn't begin to describe it. Just last week, one of his oh-so-gracious students had informed him with undisguised glee that even Mrs. Bachentass, the previously most hated teacher in the school, was more popular than he. Well, except for the coaches. Thank god for the coaches, Richard thought sarcastically, and their pompous, bombastic, interfering, meddling, godforsaken ignorant ways...two months, and he'd already had his run-ins with the wrestling coach, over the dismal English grade of one of his star wrestlers. Apparently the little punk was entirely too valuable to the team to be subject to such petty standards as _grades_.

At this point, Vernon decided he was sighing entirely too much for a twenty-five-year-old and picked up the next paper (but not before taking inordinate pleasure in writing a large red "F" on the cheerleader's paper). This second one began,

_Due to practice on Friday and a tournament on the weekend, Tony Clark was unable to complete his assignment. Please excuse my son from this grade. I'm sure you'll understand. Sincerely, Andrew Clark._

Richard growled under his breath. Parents. Even the parents were against him. It was some kind of conspiracy, he was sure of it. Andrew Clark was as much an asshole as Coach Garfield was, always protecting his goddamned son and making sure the school's star wrestler got away with bloody murder. Like missing half his assignments. And whenever Vernon attempted to inform him of Tony's rapidly declining grades, the smug bastard usually said something vague about keeping up Shermer's "tradition of champions" and then proceeded to make sure Richard Vernon knew exactly how low on the totem pole he was. Which was very low indeed.

Vernon wrote another large red "F" on the paper (_damn Clarks_) and glanced over the rest of the stacks. He really, really did not want to do this. Teaching wasn't supposed to be so much fucking..._work_. He was supposed to guide the next generation through the hallowed halls of English Education and send them on their way to bright and shining futures—and then proceed to enjoy the well-earned benefits of a two month vacation. Well, the calendar on the wall said otherwise. It solemnly informed him with ill-disguised malice (all right, so calendars weren't usually malicious, but Richard was certain to his bones that this one was) that he had eight more months of hell to survive before finally being allowed to collapse in exhaustion. Bloody, bloody _hell_.

The red pen he'd been using dropped as Vernon leaned tiredly against the wooden desk, absentmindedly running a hand through his longish hair. Hair he was certain was starting to turn gray just from being trapped in this goddamned school. He snorted softly and his thoughts took a pensive turn, recalling how eager he'd been to get this job in August. What had he been thinking? It wasn't so much the work, actually, as the severe lack of appreciation. He tried his best. He was fair with grading. He came up with new and previously unthought-of ways to present _Hamlet_. He personally tutored kids falling behind—or attempted to, anyway. And they still hated him. Goddamned, immature kids. Even the old dinosaurs looked down on him.

And so I wallow in self-pity as usual, Richard thought cynically (dear god, two months and he was already cynical about life, as opposed to the twenty-five years he'd spent trying not to be) and made a concerted effort to get back to work. Which surely meant more stupefying plot summaries of Shakespeare, when he'd specifically instructed them not to write plot summaries. He picked up the next paper.

_**Hamlet**_

_Hamlet has fascinated audiences and readers for centuries, and the first thing to point out about him is that he is enigmatic. There is always more to him than the other characters in the play can figure out; even the most careful and clever readers come away with the sense that they don't know everything there is to know about this character. Hamlet actually tells other characters that there is more to him than meets the eye—notably, his mother, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—but his fascination involves much more than this. _

Now _this_ was more like it. He did have a few gems wandering around in the muck of the student body, and by this point they were the only relief he had from all the other hellions who populated his class. No, worse than just hellions: they were _stupid_ hellions.

_When he speaks, he sounds as if there's something important he's not saying, maybe something even he is not aware of. The ability to write soliloquies and dialogues that create this effect is one of Shakespeare's most impressive achievements._

Ah, well constructed sentences and insightful commentary. Richard fought the urge to close his eyes in sheer bliss. Such a relief to encounter intelligent life forms.

_A university student whose studies are interrupted by his father's death, Hamlet is extremely philosophical and contemplative. He is particularly drawn to difficult questions or questions that cannot be answered with any certainty. Faced with evidence that his uncle murdered his father, evidence that any other character in a play would believe, Hamlet becomes obsessed with_

What? Obsessed with what? Puzzled, Vernon flipped the paper over to check that the writer hadn't started on the back. Then he checked the pile, but there was no second page. It was as if this student had started this excellent essay, then abandoned it in the middle of a sentence. He glanced at the name scrawled the upper corner—ah, it figured. One of those "brilliant, but lazy" ones. He stared at the defiant dangling sentence, tapping the red pen in annoyance. If possible, this particular group of students frustrated him more than all the stupid ones put together. So much wasted _potential_.

They usually sat in the back. The guys sported long hair, the girls sported longer hair, and every one of them seemed to take peculiar pride in flouting the dress code in every way possible: ripped jeans and peasant blouses, blindingly tie-dyed shirts, fringed unidentifiable beaded things, and the haze of marijuana smoke that was almost a second garment. Skirts rarely appeared, and when they did, were more likely to be adorning one of the males ("Kilts offer so much more blessed freedom than constricting and oppressive pants," the male in question had proclaimed before accidentally flashing half the females in the class and subsequently getting hauled off to the principal's office—again). And they utterly failed to pay attention to anything Vernon might have said over the course of 55 minutes, interesting or otherwise.

Though, considering his track record so far, that wasn't surprising.

"Dick! Ah...Rich."

Richard glanced up and sighed. Speak of the devil, indeed.


End file.
